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The Residents

This poem is best when you listen…
Cracking for kindlin’
and sometimes 
the hatchet sticks.
 
Fancy pigeons struttin’, growlin’ and cooin’.
Watch the hatchet don’t slip.
 
Water drips chatter into whiskey tubs
and overflows through tubing 
hydrate the oaks.
 
Donkeys crunch acorns and
crush others beneath their weighted hooves.
 
A Jay mimics a hawk’s scream 
and blows the songbirds away.
 
Leaps to ground and dabs at the woodstove ash
fired wood- bones – wisps of ghost smoke rise.
 
Meanwhile,
piles of dirty hay ferments
and
the vegetable garden waits.
 
Split the wood,
take a walk
donkey, dog, and she 
threads the meadow
swishes Great Basin Rye 
before this dark rain comes.
 
Overhead crossing the bleakness
a resident raven croaks. 
While the world outside the farm 
tilts just a bit more
toward      
half a bubble    
off              plum.

On the eve of the United States Capitol being stormed by protestors trying to disrupt the government’s certifying of the presidential election results.  January 6th, 2021.